


Plain Sailing Weather (not so plain everything else)

by samodiv



Category: Black Sails
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Billy-centric, Confusion TM, M/M, pre 3x10, this entire fic relies on Misunderstandings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-28
Updated: 2016-11-28
Packaged: 2018-09-02 18:12:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,842
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8677837
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/samodiv/pseuds/samodiv
Summary: These days, all who manned the Walrus trusted, enjoyed, favored Silver; all but the cap’n, and of course that’s where John would pour his love.(Billy fucking hated being jealous.)  orSilver is in the habit of complaining to Billy about his love interest. Billy thinks that is Flint. It is so not Flint.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I've been writing this in MAT100 I hope the professor is proud of me  
> (title is a frank turner song because naturally)

 

            It’d always been a dance between them, and neither had the skill for it at first.

            John would often gracelessly joke that it all came from his disability and Billy would roll his eyes, not amused. “Mate,” he’d groan, voice rough and thick with liquor as John rarely spoke of the matter unless properly inebriated and Billy did enjoy a good drink, “ya two have gotta get yer shit together.” John would then scoff, raise his glass, make some offhand comment in the tone of “as if the brilliant fire of the sun’d ever be arsed with a waster like bland ol’ me,” and Billy would down his glass too fast because the itch to hug his crewmate would be a bit stronger than last time.

            It happened like this: John climbed his way up the food chain almost miraculously, going in a matter of few weeks from the most despicable rat on board to the man of authority everyone relied on. Billy, needed he be frank with his soul, had held quite the amount of respect for Mr. Silver ever since the latter had confessed to being the head of the entire schedule mess – it had mighty pissed Billy off, yes, but he’d been equally fascinated by the man’s cunning. These days, all who manned the Walrus trusted, enjoyed, favored Silver; all but the cap’n, and _of_ _course_ that’s where John would pour his love.

            (Billy fucking hated being jealous.)

            ( _It wasn’t right._ )

            (He didn’t _have_ the right to judge that.)

            Still, it wasn’t just the object of John’s affection that troubled Billy, it was John himself as well. The quartermaster gave his heart, worked himself sick for the crew’s benefit, yet it was beyond him to accept he was of significance to these people. It seemed to Billy John only spoke with him due to their shared affinity for heavy alcohol and shared general disinterest towards the brothel. Billy didn’t know much about John’s previous romantic endeavors – John shared stories of his past rarely and scarcely, and mostly not such that involved his bed, - but he could tell that the quartermaster had been let down more oft than not. John probably thought he wasn’t giving away anything he didn’t want to share, but Billy had an eye for false smiles. It pained him how desperately, irrevocably keen John was to self-deprecation, and especially on the topic of his worthiness of love. John had never vocalized the name of his beloved, but Billy wasn’t blind. He wished, sometimes.

            The current night was well in the borders of the ordinary: they’d been ashore for two days now, which meant the men still hadn’t caught up on neither sex nor booze. Flint had gone off somewhere again, and after downing two glasses of Guthrie’s scotch each, John and Billy had looked at each other (the plea in these green eyes always got to Billy) and taken off to Billy’s small quarter in the inn. John took the bed while Billy sat on the table after fixing both a cup of tea with quite a bit of rum. The fall hadn’t gotten too harsh yet, but the wind was vicious and the window panes – weak. As always, at first they kept their quiet. John was absently scanning through some papers, scribbling a comment here and there (the devotion he had developed for keeping the crew business tidy was admirable), and Billy was doing his best not to stare too obviously. John had showered this morning, his hair was shiny and seemed temptingly soft, unrestrained for once, and Billy wanted to see him brush it, wanted to then run his fingers through it, braid it like he did his mother’s hair in another time. Every muscle on the quartermaster’s face was clenched in concentration, and Billy wanted to smooth out the wrinkle on his forehead with his calloused fingers. Billy wanted to do many things, in general, none of which were realistic in any way; essentially, Billy was fucked.

            “Want another cup?” he asked John, seeing him down the remaining part of his drink. John looked up, confused. “What? Oh. Yeah, maybe just tea this time.” “Sure.” Billy hopped off the table and leaned to pick up the cup John was still holding. Their fingers brushed. Billy made himself not think about it. He needed a refill as well, so he put the kettle on, pouring a generous amount of rum in his cup in advance. He stood glaring at the kettle, his back turned to John so as not to stop the staring he’d been doing all day. Still, he enjoyed the moment. They were almost domestic like that, John quietly occupying his bed (and oh, did Billy love sleeping there once John inevitably left, the sheets keeping his scent, it almost felt like a hug), Billy making them tea. Almost like they weren’t just crewmates. Almost like they were enough.

            The kettle whirred to life and Billy jumped, muttering out a Scottish curse absent-mindedly. John chuckled, and Billy heard the bed screeching, then steps behind him. “Lost in thought, aren’t we?” John mumbled, putting his arms on Billy’s shoulders. Billy shook his head, annoyed at himself. “Was thinking of your majestic mane, o quartermaster,” he replied, forcing his voice into sarcasm despite the truth in his words. John scoffed, reaching past Billy to grip the kettle’s handle and pouring tea for both of them. “Would say the same if ya stopped cutting it so damn short.” He ruffled Billy’s hair at that; innocent as the gesture was, Billy couldn’t suppress the shiver that ran through his spine. Too much touching. John was in love with the captain. Billy was getting drunk on blind hope. This was not good. He span on his heels, abruptly, so determined to get away from his crewmate that he forgot how close they were standing to each other and clashed into him, slamming his chest against John’s face.

            And John looked up at him, confusion vivid on his face but hurt in his eyes, and Billy didn’t know what he’d done wrong but he’d do anything to fix it. “What – did I do something?” “No, go if I so disgust you,” John spat out, even more wounded now. Billy rolled his eyes on impulse, then groaned when he realized this was an arsehole thing to do. “You don’t – Silver. Sorry. Didn’t mean to react. You’re not disgusting. All right?” John mumbled something inaudible at that and thrust Billy’s cup in his hand, gripping his own so hard his knuckles were white. “I’m not quite into being touched, ya know,” Billy grinned, nervously. It was the opposite of the actual problem, but it would have to do as an explanation. John shrugged. “Whatever, mate. Bet _no_ _one_ would like me near him anyways,” and, wow, this was so not specific at all. “Mate… I’m pretty sure if his head wasn’t that deep up his arse he’d appreciate you alright,” Billy tried to sound encouraging. It was getting harder and harder – not that he’d ever been good at helping people with romantic shit, but now that he was this involved with the deal, he struggled on the enthusiasm, because, sure, he wanted John to be happy (Lord knew he wanted nothing more in life), but he wanted him to be happy with… Billy, not with Flint. He was starting to embrace this selfish part of his, yet he hated it nonetheless.

            John smirked at that, however obviously out of the humor. “It’s quite funny he didn’t get the idea already.” Billy irked an eyebrow. “Well, have you made it clear with him? Cause he isn’t the brightest in this department, ya know.” “Oh, quite clear. He is, though, blind to the truth of my heart’s yearnings.” Now that was entirely new information, and Billy was confused at not being privy to it. He needed details. “When did you talk to him? Or ‘ve you been courting his subtly, cause he’d not be one to note– ” “I talk of it to him more than I talk with any on this ship,” John said, eyeing him like he was a strangely peculiar bug. Billy didn’t know what to make of this. Was John finally too drunk? Or had he been dishonest all this time? Billy felt as hurt as confused. “Surely the cap’n finds your ramblings as puzzling as I.” John startled at that, his pupils widened as he burst into laughter. “Oh. _Oh_. Well, this explains a bloody lot,” he managed through chokes. His laughter sounded hysterical, and so broken, so very broken it pained Billy to listen. “The _cap’n_. Boy. You thought… sweet Jesus, Billy, I harbor no romantic notions towards fucking _Flint_.”

            Billy wasn’t sure which one of them had gone mad; both, perhaps. “What are you going on about? You’ve told me so many times…” “That he whom I love is fair and just. That he is noble even in battle. That he’s the only lad on this wretched boat that isn’t only bothered with his personal endeavors. That I’d trust him with my life without wanting it back. Did you really not see it?” John seemed right on the border between maniacally amused and broken-hearted, as if once the grin was gone tears would follow, and Billy hadn’t seen him moved so since his lover had drowned in his arms during that battle. “Silver, I don’t get it,” he sighed. “If not Flint, then – ” John reached for the bottle and drank what was left of the rum at once, chased with what tea there was in his cup, and looked at Billy, an eyebrow cocked in challenge. The brilliant fire of the sun. Noble. Just. Fair… Billy had never taken his own complexion into account. He slowly ran a hand through his short locks, unsure. Was he allowed to jump to this conclusion? What if he was wrong?

            What if he was _right_?

            He turned fully to John. “If not Flint. Is it. By chance. Is it me?” He was mumbling, mashing words together because hope was a dangerous thing, he’d learned that the hard way, he’d learned not to be naïve – John was nodding, too fast and too slightly for Billy to determine at first, but definitely nodding. Billy could feel the very paths of the blood frantically running through his body. “I didn’t say it outright ‘cause I know I’m worthless as they get, and you deserve – ” No, no, no, Billy was absolutely not having this. “Damn right I don’t deserve you!” he was all but yelling, high on what he now knew – that John loved _him_ , _loved_ him, had loved him for the past two years, “ _How_ could I ever deserve you? You are the wittiest, the most compassionate, the kindest, definitely the most handsome man I have met, Silv- John. John,” Billy uttered softly, finally allowing his hands to touch the other’s face, finally allowing his lips almost reach John’s – still, first he needed to ask.

            “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?”

           

**Author's Note:**

> ( the bed is put to good use, worry not – I just can’t write smut)


End file.
